


If You Give a Pup a Flamethrower

by Tyellas



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cute Kids, Flamethrower, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road, one violent moment, that's pretty good for the Wasteland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 02:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/pseuds/Tyellas
Summary: If you let a pup near your Interceptor, he’ll tease you. If you let him tease you, he’ll tease someone else. If he gets away with that, he might get a flamethrower. And if he gets a flamethrower, he’ll want to use it!





	If You Give a Pup a Flamethrower

The Citadel’s Treadmill Bay was a busy place. Amidst its bustle, two men were consulting over one car. One of them, a Citadel Repair Boy touched with white paint, was talking a lot, waving wires around. The other one, the car’s driver, was ruddy with ground-in Wasteland grime. His leather jacket had one sleeve left and a ragged pauldron. He said nothing.

A child had followed the Repair Boy over. He edged closer to the dirty driver and the fascinating car. The chargers of a real V-8 snouted out from its hood. Like its driver, it was covered in desert dust. “I’m gonna do it,” the child said.

A taller boy, in full white War Pup paint, was lingering. His eyes, too, hungered for the car. “No you’re not. You’re still a baby Pup. Not three thousand days old! Why aren’t you at the learning with Corpus?”

“I’m not a baby. I’m Spark! I don’t have to go to that class ‘cause I read now. I even know my oldyears. Six-and-a-half.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Don’t do it. I tell you. I’m a War Pup so I get to tell you what to do. If you do, the driver Wretch will eat you. He's a feral.”

Spark huffed. “I’m gonna do it. See!” Spark tiptoed forwards and planted his palm against the dusty side of the car. The boy behind him gasped.

Before Spark could laugh in triumph, a shadow fell over him. Spark turned. The first thing he saw was a knee brace. He looked up at the car’s driver, sun-browned, stubbled, still quiet. Spark said, “You won’t eat me.” Up here in the Citadel, nobody ate people, not even Wretches and ferals.

The driver shook his head. He had the very slightest smile.

Spark inhaled with glee, then stepped back, nose wrinkling. “You’re stinky!”

The driver went red under his suntan. Spark took the chance to run back to the War Pup. Breathless, Spark screeched, “I touched the V-8. Witness me! I did it!”

The War Pup cursed. “You little pups are so bad! You’re s’posed to listen! If I did that, five hundred days ‘go, I would’ve got the bash! Daddy – the Immortan – would’ve…”

Spark blinked. Five hundred days ago was the distant past for him. His Citadel was a bigger world, run by Sisters and mothers and brothers, not just one man. His mind flashed quick as his namesake. “Maybe the stinky feral was your daddy. He had blue eyes, like you.”

“Nuh uh…but…if he’s my dad…that could be my car…” The War Pup swayed, dreaming.

“If you’re a driver can I be your fighter?” Whenever he said ‘lancer’ his Citadel bro, the grown–up Repair Boy who looked after him, said he was Too Young For That Yet. Spark didn’t want the War Pup to say that.

The War Pup said it anyway. “You’re way little and you don’t have a weapon.”

Spark cried, “I can get one! A flamethrower! My Citadel mum said I could!”

“Your mum’s just a Wretch who got to come up. My mum,” the War Boy said, very proudly, “is a whore.” 

“Oooooh,” Spark moaned. They both fell silent in respect for a moment.

Spark toed the ground. “My mum’s still trading paint with someone. He’s from Gastown. She says she’ll ask him sometime.”

“That’s gross. But,” the War Pup admitted, “Gastown does have all the stuff.”

Spark breathed, “It’s so gross. They _kiss_.”

"Euuuu! Uuuuugh!" They started making barfing noises at each other and laughing.

The Treadmill lift works clanged loudly: the noise they made when the platform had reached the entry. Both boys looked. Three greasy, spiked vehicles, dark and dirty save for splashes of fluorescent paint, roared off and pulled up. These guards and drivers were all masked. There was a fuss around them, people coming and going. When the fuss cleared, Spark recognized a someone his mum had pointed out, from a distance. This was his chance!

 “He’s here right now! I’ll ask.”

The War Pup went genuinely white under his paint. “No. NO! We’re super not s’posed to go up to -”

Spark dashed away before he heard the War Pup. Today, he’d touched a Wasteland V8 and a strange feral hadn’t eaten him. He could do anything.

That thought took him to the edge of the Gastown group arriving, up to the feet of the masked people. They didn’t smell good either, but it was different. They smelled like engines. Spark got the uneasy feeling that they _would_ eat him if this went wrong. He tried to catch the eyes of the one his mum knew, but all the guards were around him. “Scuse me,” Spark piped.

One of the guards registered this. “Oi, boss. Got a visitor.”

The trim central figure, all in black and charcoal gray, looked over at Spark. The other Gastown people had half-masks, like Spark's mum. This one, his mask covered his whole head. It was creepy, off-kilter stitching and spikes, respirator vents and blank, black goggle eyes. Spark had never seen him without it. Spark swallowed. “Can you – can I have a flamethrower?”

The masked man said nothing.

“You’re trading paint with my mum…” Spark trailed off.

The masked man pointed at him, once. Then his gloved finger pulsed in the air, considering. Another speechless moment stretched out.

It was broken by a snigger. The guard who’d noticed him was spluttering with laughter behind his own mask. “Haw! Trading paint! Start ‘em young, don’t – AAAAGH!”

The guard’s cackling brought the trim Gastown mask to life. He whipped a rebar nightstick out of one sleeve, to crack its metal against the guard’s elbow. The guard collapsed, howling, to his knees. Spark froze. The masked man snapped his fingers and pointed. In a moment, the guard’s own flamethrower was stripped from him by other Gastown hands. The masked man gestured to the flamethrower, then to Spark.

A different guard, with a shrug, plunked the flamethrower in front of Spark. “Run boss says it’s yours, it’s yours. Happy Amnesty, kid.” The Amnesty...the grown ups had mentioned it a lot lately. It was a Gastown time, like a big party, with races. The masked man had stepped well back. He nodded, once, agreeing.

There was a great shout from the Treadmill, and the clang of machinery. A tanker truck of guzzoline had arrived. The masked man waved in dismissal. Spark grabbed the flamethrower and ran. He remembered running like this when he'd been a real baby, a little Wretch down below. The Immortan had been alive, and being a Wretch was hard and hungry. He'd learned, then, to forget things like the guard's screams, and he forgot them now.

Spark hugged the flamethrower to him. Even though its tank was the length of his own body, it felt like part of him already. His very own flamethrower!

The War Pup ran up to him. “I got it! I got it! For the Amnesty!” Spark crowed.

“Yeah, well, the feral saw and he’s right behind me. He’s gonna take it from you!”

Spark didn’t wait. He ran more. Across the Treadmill Bay, darting under the churning works to lose the man, out the back balcony, into the safe darkness of the Citadel.

The War Pup caught up to him. “That was pretty good! You lost ‘m at the works!” He looked back. “When I’m a War Boy I’ll kill him and take his car. And you can be my fighter." Spark beamed. "You going to hide it?”

“I want to try it! I’ll get something to burn.”

“Like what?”

“I can get upstairs where they grow the plants. You can’t. You’re too big.” Spark bit his lip. He hated to release his treasure, but he had to put it down sometime. “If you hold onto it while I go…I’ll let you try it first.”

The War Pup didn't wait two seconds before grabbing the flamethrower. “How’re you gonna get up there?”

“I know. My mum showed me. She works on the pipes. There’s ways to go, but you have to be a pup, or real skinny.”

“They won’t let you take stuff.”

“Yes they will. My best friend’s up there. You’ll see. Don’t let the feral get it, okay? You can hide where I go up.”

Climbing up the pipes was different alone. It was harder. Scarier. But, finally, the star of light at the top grew big, turned into an opening. Spark fell onto the floor outside, gasping with relief. His hands were red with rust. He could smell plants and water. Up here, at the top of the tower, they farmed. And, in this Citadel tower, this was where most of the girls and women lived.

The girls up here had, like Spark, been picked out from the Wretches when they were babies or very little. They were supposed to use their tiny hands to help grow the plant they called cotton, to pick its seeds out and spin it into thread. When they were big, they used to go off to be breeders or wives. It was going to be different, now. The Sisters and Mothers were in charge, and they said the girls could do anything they wanted. But they were still kept very separate, to keep them safe. He’d overheard one of the Vuvalini saying part of it was so that the girls’ minders, older women, could feel like they still had some power.

Spark stole along some of the ways here to a gathering place. It was empty of most people, but that was lucky. Because his friend, Calafia, was there. Most of her hair was in a long, silky braid. She was sighing and blowing little wisps of hair out of her face as she slowly, slowly, worked a comb through a handful of cotton. A big sack with more cotton was beside her.

Spark half-hid as a woman’s sandals approached. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“No. Ma’am.” Calafia squirmed, then burst out, “I hate picking at the cotton! My eyes go all squinty and I won’t be able to use a gun later like my Citadel mum! She’s a Vuvalini.” Spark nodded. They had become friends when Calafia had come to the Green Tower’s gardens with the tall, laughing Vuvalini. Having a Vuvalini as your Citadel mum was the most chrome you could get. The Sisters said they looked after all the Citadel people, young and old, but that wasn’t the same as being a Citadel mum. And Furiosa, the warlord Imperator, was always alone.

The farm woman seemed to know all this and not like it. Steely and cloying, she said, “Your mum knows you’re here. We all have to do our bit! You do a very good job - when you do it. And you won’t do anything else until you’re done. Do you understand?”

Calafia hung her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

When the woman left, Spark snuck out. “Calafia!”

The girl gasped. “Spark! What are you doing here?”

“I got a flamethrower. I got it! Then I came up the pipes. Do you – can we – is there anything I could take to burn up with it?”

Calafia’s eyes kindled. “YES.” She stood up and lifted the sack of cotton. “Let’s go.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

“No, ‘cause I won’t come back. I’m done up here. I’m going to run away and be a Vuvalini all the time now. But…if they won’t let me, maybe I’ll be a War Girl.”

Spark bit his lip again. This day was getting better and better.

It took a lot longer to climb back down. Calafia wasn’t scared of the dark and the pipes, she said. But her voice quavered when she said it was real different, and she had to go slow or she’d fall. Spark crawled below her so he could catch her, like his mum did with him, even though Calafia was a bit bigger than he was. Finally, they arrived at the spot inside the Citadel again.

When they got out, the War Pup was still there. He took an astonished step back. “A girl! Ma’am!”

Calafia tossed her head, proud as her mum already. “That’s right.”

Spark exclaimed, “She brought us a whole thing of cotton to burn up!” He bounced and put the cotton sack in the middle of the stone corridor.

“Chrome,” the War Pup breathed. He slung the flamethrower over his shoulders.

Calafia pouted. “Why’s he going first? It’s your flamethrower.”

Spark mumbled, “I promised him like a deal.”

Calafia eyed the War Pup. “Do you promise you’ll burn it all up? Every last bit?”

The War Pup said, “Oh yeah. Ma’am.”

She smiled a little. “Okay then.”

Spark couldn’t stand it. “Do it!”

“Three….two…one!” The War Pup pointed the flame gun and pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Calafia was fairly dancing. “Me! Let me try! It’s got a trigger and my mum says triggers are for girls!” They switched so that she was strapped in, wearing the flamethrower. “Do the count again!”

“Three…two…one!”

Again, nothing happened.

The War Boy said, “Maybe it’s like a car and a wheel and a driver. It’ll only go for Spark ‘cause it’s his.”

“Okay.” Together the War Boy and Calafia buckled the flamethrower around Spark. The straps were tightened even further to hold it on Spark’s shoulders. The flamethrower’s weight still felt just right, substantial but not too heavy. Spark took the flame-gun in his hands and pointed it. “Three…two…”

“What’re you pups doing?”

Spark turned around. There was the stinky feral from the car again. But it was all right. Because, with him, was a whited-up War Boy, tall as the Citadel itself…the Ace! The stinky feral just pointed at the three of them. He opened his hands and looked at the Ace.

Spark explained. “I got a flamethrower! My mum’s mate gave it to me. For the Amnesty.”

The Ace shook his head. “Sweet sparkplugs.”

“We didn’t use it!” said the War Pup.

“’Cause we can’t get it to go,” Calafia added. “Only Spark can.”

“Is that so?” said the Ace. He turned to the feral. “Thanks for grabbing me, Max. You done good here. I’ll set this right in no time.”

Spark looked up and up at the Ace, abashed. The Immortan was a troubling memory. He remembered being told his Citadel bro and his Citadel mum would look after him. But the Ace had always been the Ace. The most tough, shiny, chrome War Boy who’d ever lived and died and lived again.

Spark held out the flamethrower, humbly offering it to his hero. The War Pup made the V-8 sign. Calafia made the sign the women liked, snapping boltcutters. Even the stinky feral nodded with approval.

The Ace hefted the flamethrower easily, and began to smile. “For the Amnesty. Hah. You dealt pretty good, pup, to get yourself a Gastown flamethrower. But...did you ask for the _fuel?_ ”

Spark felt his face fall. “No.”

“There you have it.”

The War Pup said, “That’s why it’s not working. Rust for brains!”

The Ace said, “Hey! None o’ that talk. We all get burned, our first Gastown deal.” He put the flamethrower back down in front of Spark. “Tell you what. Let’s do this right. We’ll fuel this up good and proper. Then we’ll take it to the welding bay and let ‘er rip.”

“Yay!” Spark and Calafia yelled. They grabbed the flamethrower together.

The War Pup moaned, “Aw, sir! Let me do it. They’re too little!”

The feral sank his forehead into his hand, groaning.

The Ace noticed and smacked the feral’s dirty shoulder, like they were friends. “Thanks again, Max. Happy Amnesty!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this bit of Amnesty holiday fluff! 
> 
> Spark pops up in a few of my other stories. He meets his Citadel bro in [_Mods Day_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4097674/chapters/9240652) (where you'll see that both he and his bro are trans), and he's a plot moppet in _Citadel Nights_ , appearing in chapters 2 (Calafia too) and 32.


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